I am stunned that Carrie Fisher, at 60, passed away after having a heart attack on Friday during a flight from London to Los Angeles.
When I wrote about her previous to this, I was under the impression after her mother, the actress Debbie Reynolds, said she was in stable condition, that she was on the road to recovery.
I guess it was wishful thinking on my part, while reading Wishful Drinking on hers.
I’m here with her latest memoir, The Princess Diarist, in my lap like it’s a holy oracle since, these were her last words, on paper at least.
I spoke of her frankness, the way she told you everything personal without holding anything back.
How when she and her brother, Todd, were small, missed their mother so much who spent hours at work too exhausted to be much of a mom when she got home, to be close to her, they’d sleep in her bedroom…Carrie on the floor, Todd curled up in a window seat.
She openly tells of her chronic depression, finally diagnosed as bipolar allowing you to see the horrors on one side, with hope on the other.
She unabashedly talks of her marriage to singer, Paul Simon, and how after arguing before getting on a plane said to him, if the plane crashes, you’ll be sorry, and he said, maybe not.
I laughed even though it wasn’t very funny, but because she found humor, I had permission to find it too.
Carrie poked fun at everything except Billie, her daughter, she said was perfect.
After spending the Christmas weekend with her reading, I feel loss.
Princess Leia, alas, is no more.